Truth
by ShadowedRainbow
Summary: What if Tolkien's masterpiece of fiction, wasn't fiction? This is a work in progress that I hope you all enjoy. I'm not good at summaries, so I apologize. I've rated it M because of language, implied adult themes and violence, just to be on the safe side of the tracks. Oh, and I almost forgot... If you are a fan of Arwen, you might not like what I've done to her.
1. Prologue

_Prologue: 12 years after the great battle_

The smell of blood and sweat filled the room. The quiet sobbing of Arwen's handmaidens was a soft counterpoint to her ragged breathing. He entered quietly, afraid of intruding even though he had been sent for. Aragorn's face told him the truth, the torture in the King's eyes confirmed the whispered rumors. Arwen, their beloved Queen was dying. Legolas knew she had been ill but he wasn't expecting this. He clasped Aragorn's shoulder, offering mute comfort. The green eyes met his, the agony there wrenching his heart. Aragorn gave a tight smile, accepting the comfort with a swift pat of his hand. Then his eyes returned to the face of his beloved Queen.

From her bed, Arwen watched the exchange with pain filled eyes. Hatred kindled in her soul; even now at her deathbed, he betrayed her. The bond between Ranger and King was one she never understood nor had she ever truly tolerated it. For the past twelve years she had been the recipient of innuendo, stares and rumors about the two. But no longer...at last she would be free.

"Legolas." she whispered, annoyed that he should see her like this.

"My Queen." he dropped to his knee, head bowed respectfully. But she saw only insolence and triumph there. Her eyes flared briefly in hatred then carefully blanked, she spoke again.

"I would have a moment alone." she said neutrally to Aragorn. He began to protest but she silenced him with a soft, "Please." She watched as he herded everyone out of the room closing her chamber door after them all. Then she turned her gaze, hate-filled once again, to the fair, bright head still bent in supplication.

"Answer me true, Ranger Prince of Mirkwood." she spoke harshly. "Are you lovers?" Her question dropped into the silent room as a stone into a calm pool. Legolas started sharply and his head came up. His stunned blue eyes gazing into hers in shock.

"No, my Lady!" he protested quickly. She held his gaze. "I love him as my brother." He had known of the rumors and whispers of the court; how could he not? But he had never thought that Arwen might possibly put credence to them.

"Even now you lie to me." she hissed in anger. She grasped his arm just above the wrist. "Even as I die you would_ lie_ to me."

"No my Queen, I swear, he is as my brother!" he protested hotly. Her accusation cut him to the quick.

"Aragorn is _mine_." she snarled. She jerked his arm pulling him off balance. Before he could recover, she had pulled a dagger from beneath her pillows. Put there in hopes of cutting the pain of her labors by one of the maids, now she intended it for another purpose. Moving quickly, she slashed the tender skin of his wrist, cutting through tendon and vein to lay bare the bone. Legolas' body jerked in response, his head reeled at the sudden pain. His blue eyes raised from the sight of his blood spilling onto the already soaked coverlet. Mute from shock he could only stare at the woman he had thought his Queen and friend.

"I curse you, son of Thranduil. I give you an eternity of servitude to the blood of Elessar. I deny you your place in Valinor, as you have denied me mine in my King's heart. I take from you the love you deny. Alone you swear to sleep, then _alone_ you shall remain. An eternity of pain, I give to you son of Thranduil. For as long as the blood of Aragorn remains, so shall you be bound to it. Keep it safe, for it will be all that you shall have. This I curse you with." she spat the words into his face, pulled closely to hers. Her voice dripped with hatred as she spoke, her words timed to the dripping of his blood to mingle with hers.

Through the haze of pain and shock, he felt the icy chains of the curse wind their way around his soul. Dimly he realized just what she had done. Blackness reached to claim him and he knew then that he was lost.

They laid Arwen Evenstar to rest in the crypt next to where they would lay her husband and King. The burial was attended by her husband and their children, two boys and a newly born girl-child. A dwarf and three small halflings stood crying silently as the ancient wizard Gandalf prayed for her soul's journey. It was remarked that the King's constant companion the Ranger Prince, Legolas was strangely absent. The court whispered that he was overcome with grief at losing his kinswoman thusly, making him perhaps the last Elf in Middle Earth. None but the King and the remaining heroes of the Fellowship knew part of the truth. Knew that Legolas was near to death from the mysterious wound. None knew that if the Elf recovered he would never draw his bow again, that whatever had occurred had maimed him for life. Only Legolas and Arwen knew the truth of what had happened in her chambers. Both keeping the secret perhaps for eternity.


	2. Chapter 1

_*I have taken the liberty of using some events from the life of JRR Tolkien to give a semblance of "reality" to this story since the premise is that the Trilogy was actually something that happened. The following are highlights from the life of JRR Tolkien as taken from one of his biographies; I just merely... embellished (yeah that's the word) them a little. He was indeed very good friends with Christopher Lee later in his life. I have "borrowed" the cast from LotR and no disrespect is intended. All the standard disclaimer's apply; if I were making money off this... well then, I wouldn't be working lol. Please let me know if you would like to see more of this... Its actually completed, just undergoing final editing and polishing.*_

Chapter One

_1904_

The two boys huddled together, miserable in the train station. The hustle and bustle, leaving a small island of isolation, as people hurried past on their own journeys. Few spared them a second glance, seeing if they did, two small suitcases worn and obviously of poor quality. If they cared to look at the boys, the elder holding the younger tightly, they would have seen exceptional intelligence in the eyes of the elder. John, older than Hilary by two years, had excelled in his classes at King Edward's, but now that life was behind him.

Their mother had taken ill and died unexpectedly. Their father having died many years ago, they had been left to the tender mercies of an Aunt neither of them had ever seen. John had been pulled from King Edward's, told only that his mother was ill. Now less than a week later, her funeral over, he found himself taking care of his younger brother, when all he wanted was to be taken care of himself. _`You'll need to be a man now, John.'_ one of the well wisher's had said to him after the funeral. How was one supposed to be a man, when he was still a boy? John wondered.

Hilary sniffled, his cold worse than it had been that morning. John muttered something and dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. He wiped Hilary's nose, noticing as he did that someone was watching them. Hilary, only ten, seemed much younger, having been his mother's baby. Hil had the annoying habit of whining at most things, but he had been strangely quiet since they had been put on the train.

"Johnnie, I'm hungry." Hil said softly. John was too, but he didn't think that the small bit of money they had would be enough to feed them plus find lodgings if his Aunt didn't show soon.

"I know, Hil. Aunt Suffield should be here soon." he said pitching his voice so as not to attract too much attention. He had noticed a man watching them from the moment they had left the train. John might be young but he wasn't stupid. He knew that children were sometimes snatched from train stations. He had heard tales of horror, most fiction but some truth to them in school, of boys taken and put to work in the mines of Wales. Or even shipped off to the Dark Continent.

"Would you read to me, Johnnie?" Hil asked. John had been reading passages from Oliver Twist to Hil on the train and smiling he pulled the much used copy from his pocket. He began to read softly. Uncomfortably he found the story of Oliver much too close to their own for his liking, but Hilary loved the story. So he read, keeping his voice light and cheerful.

He hadn't noticed the passing of time as he read, but the man watching the boys had marked the hours slowly slipping by. The longer they remained unclaimed by family the easier it would be for him to effect the grab. He thought the older one might be a bit of a problem, but he knew his work well enough to guess that if he could snatch the younger first, the older would follow without a struggle. He grinned to himself, they would bring a fair price on the market. Gauging his time, he slowly began to make his way to the children. He knew just when to make his move. The patrol wouldn't be around quite as frequently now that it was approaching supper, the station chief would be busy with his dailies, who would notice if the two just disappeared, more like people would think their family had come at last. He kept his eye on the station master, there the old bugger left his post at the window. Now.

John startled when someone clapped a hand on Hilary's shoulder. He was hauled to his feet by the disreputable fellow John had seen watching them earlier. John followed, dropping Oliver to the floor.

"Here now, lad, don't cause a ruckus." the man whispered. He pressed a knife to the underside of Hilary's jaw, moving it so that John could see it clearly. "Come along quietly and nuthing will happen." John didn't know what to do. Hilary's wide and frightened eyes pleaded with him to do something. John looked wildy around for anyone to help but the station was deserted. Only shadows and the far off call of a street vendor could be heard.

"Don't make me say it twice, lad." the man jerked Hilary sharply, causing the knife point to dig a little deeper into Hilary's neck. John nodded and started to pick up the cases, "Move quick." the man ordered. John did as he was bade, he walked beside the man out of the station. His heart pounding John hoped that he would see someone, anyone that would help them. He knew what was happening but was helpless against the full grown thug. The man pushed open the station doors and motioned them into the street. He kept hold of Hilary, making sure that John could see the knife.

"Don't try anything funny, or I'll cut him." the man warned. Hilary made a frightened squeak and John knew then that they were trapped. There was nothing he could do without endangering his brother.

"I won't." he said quietly. Fear and rage warred in his young heart as they walked down the street. He looked hopefully around, surely someone must see them but there was no one. The further they got from the station the more John knew they were lost. His hopes were dashed even further when their captor pulled them down a side street. It was dark and dank, the fading sunlight unable to pierce the gloom. The man told him to drop their cases, and as John did so, he felt the full weight of his terror.

When help did come, it came quickly. One moment the man held the knife at Hilary's throat, the next he was laid at their feet, gasping, a long white handled knife sticking through his shoulder. He clutched at it and attempted to draw it from himself, but failing, collapsed back onto the pavement. A long, lean shadow detached itself from a building, and in the twilight, it flitted quickly to them. Hilary, frightened already, stifled a scream, and John, none too brave himself, gasped.

A tall man knelt beside their assailant and drawing the knife from it's place in his shoulder, passed the blade quickly over the man's throat, silencing him rather effectively. Their saviour stood, and moving quickly, gracefully, drew the boys away from the dying man. John didn't speak, he was too afraid. Hilary sobbing softly beside him, he could only look in wonder at the man standing with them. His face was shadowed, but John could see that it was lean and he thought rather like a girl's.

"Come, your Aunt will be worried," the man spoke. John felt his voice slide over them, calming Hilary and himself with little effort. It was soft and cool, rather distant sounding. John glanced into the face above his and again found himself frightened briefly. The face was not that of a man's, there was something wrong, something that didn't sit well with what a man should look like. It was too perfect. But what chilled him the most were the man's eyes. Dark caverns of sadness, they called to the ache in John's heart. The man walked silently over to their cases, and gestured at them.

"You will have to carry them." It was then that John noticed that the man only had one hand. The other was there only covered with a black glove. The stranger followed John's gaze and smiled coldly. "An old injury. Come, your Aunt is waiting." He started with them toward the train station. A woman's loud strident voice came to the boys over their footsteps. It seemed that their Aunt had at last arrived. "Say nothing of this to your Aunt, she would not understand." the man whispered softly. John stared up at him in the failing light as something caught his attention.

"Thank you, sir." John at last found his voice. The man looked into his eyes, smiling slightly.

"Do not thank me, young Tolkien. Not yet." With that soft caution, their companion melted into the shadows, leaving the boys outside the station. Hilary looked at John with questioning eyes. John shook his head and taking Hil's hand they entered. He didn't know who that man had been, but one thing he did know, he was no ordinary man. Ordinary men made noise, didn't have eyes of sorrow and above all they didn't have points on their ears. He looked once more out into the gathering dark, but there was nothing there to be seen. He couldn't even make out the shape of the dead man they had let behind. Somehow he didn't think that anyone would find that body. At least not anytime soon.

_1916_

John ducked his head as yet another mortar was fired in their direction. He could hear the screams of his fellow soldiers cutting through the din of battle. Nothing had prepared him for this. No words, no training could have ever told him that war was indeed hell. He had already lost several of his mates, most in the first day. Now as he waited for their orders, he knew that he would see more die. He closed his eyes and wished fervently to be back in England again, with Ethel his new bride, perhaps walking to the University...he opened his eyes as someone grabbed his shoulder. It was the First Sergeant, the man shouted the words John was loathe to hear. "We move in five."

John rolled over, his gun clutched tightly in sweaty hands. His throat was dry and he was scared. He didn't think he had ever been as scared as this before. Not when his father had died, not even that time at the train station when he and Hil had almost been kidnapped. He thought for a moment about their strange rescuer. He had thought a lot about him since that time. Had wondered if perhaps he had imagined it, both he and Hil had often talked about Him...but neither could truly remember what he had looked like. Their memory had faded rather quickly, replaced by his Aunt's version of the truth- that they had wandered away and had stumbled upon a man being accosted by thieves.

It wasn't until later, after their Aunt Suffield had her breakdown, when she had begged him to take her place as the "Caretaker" whatever that was, that he had some idea of what had happened. He had promised the barmy old girl, putting her at ease. He had had no idea until several years later what he had promised. Aunt Suffield had passed on in seclusion in a rest home leaving all her possessions to him. Among them was a locked trunk. He had found the key, a strange silver key and upon opening the trunk had changed his perception of the world forever.

John felt the tap on his shoulder that was the signal to move out. He gritted his teeth and with a tight grip on his gun, he leapt out of his trench. Then he was pounding his way across No Man's Land toward the Germans on the other side. To his left and right, his comrades also ran. His mind was confused by the blur of images and fear. He never saw that grenade that exploded almost at his feet, throwing him into the air.

John came to much later, his eyes covered by something cool and slightly wet. There was no sound, for a moment he panicked, then the pounding of his heart registered through the panic. He wasn't deaf or dead. If he was then his body wouldn't hurt quite so badly. He could feel every bone in it hurting as if broken. He could feel the weight of the blanket covering him, it's presence both warm and highly irritating. His skin felt like it too was on fire. He must have made a sound for he heard movement. Someone was approaching his bed.

"Be still." a chill, soft voice spoke next to him. John started in surprise. He knew that voice. "You mustn't move too much. You have been gravely injured. I have healed what I can, but you mustn't move."

"I-" John's voice was cracked, his throat sore. "I know you." he managed to whisper.

"As I know you, young Tolkien." the voice held a hint of humor now.

"Who? Where?" John tried to ask but his throat felt worse.

"There will be time for answers later, young Tolkien." he felt the cool touch of a cup against his lips. He could smell something wonderful in it. It wasn't tea or coffee, but smelled of sweet flowers and spring. He sipped it slowly, the taste soothing his throat and bringing instant comfort.

"Good." John whispered. That was his last thought as sleep claimed him.

When John awoke next, he felt surprisingly better. Perhaps not surprising, he mused. He still had a covering of something over his eyes, but was grateful because he still had a devil of a headache. He couldn't tell if his companion was with him, but a soft question brought no response. Alone then, he decided. Testing, he put his hand to his brow. He felt along the edge of the bandage, half fearful of what he might find. His face felt the same, bruised but still in one piece. He felt along his body, tensing at the thought that he might be missing limbs, but everything appeared to be where he had left it.

"Good, you are awake." the voice came from somewhere off to his left. He hadn't heard anyone enter. A touch on his cheek startled him. There came again the cup to his lips but this time he smelled tea. He smiled gratefully and sipped the warm brew.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked, hoping for an answer.

"A few mornings have passed." the voice said. "Can you eat?"John's stomach rumbled his response, which brought a soft chuckle. A pleasant sound John thought in amazement. His companion moved, John could hear the faint rustle of clothing, but beyond that not a sound. "My company will miss me."

"There are none left." The words hit him like a stone.

"All gone?" he whispered.

"In the folly of war, many lives are lost." there was a pause. "I grieve for their loss." The sadness in the voice made John feel like his heart would break. He had never heard someone sound so desolate. There came the smell of something wonderful from somewhere, and his stomach rumbled again.

"My thanks, for saving my life." John said softly. "I should have died."

"I had a hard time finding you. I regret that I came almost too late." The chill in the voice made John shudder. He couldn't understand the change.

"Eat. It will give you strength." the warmth was gone. John took a bite of what was offered. The stranger fed him silently. John was awkward, not being able to see, and his pride suffered at having to be fed. The stranger didn't make a sound but wiped the stew from his chin and neck when he dribbled. John laid his head back, signaling that he had had enough.

"Sleep more, when you wake I will perhaps remove the bandage from your eyes. They should be healed enough for you to see." the closing of a door told him that he was alone.

John didn't feel like he needed to sleep. He felt he had slept too much already. His mind whirled crazily and he fought to try to make sense out of what little he remembered. He remembered the charge, the screaming mass of soldiers racing stupidly across open fields. He seemed to remember a loud whistle then the sensation of being thrown backwards. His next memory was one of pain, of being picked up by someone. He couldn't remember much after that. Strange impressions mostly, being on horseback, the smell of powder and blood, burning pain, then an end to the pain. His nose twitched as he remembered being held tightly, the pain being replaced by burning warmth. There was a weight on his chest that was uncomfortably hot...a hand, he could still feel it's outline imprinted on his skin. Then he could remember the scent of deep woods, a soft spring day...he shook his head confused. Obviously there had been some damage to his mind. He had never been in the deep woods, much less the woods that this olfactory hallucination sparked. He had never seen trees that tall or heard them whisper in welcome. Disgusted with himself, John slid back along the pillows and willed himself to sleep.

As he began to drift, he felt a brush of something touch his mind. A whispered welcome in a leafy voice, then he _heard_ a lullaby sung softly by a willow tree and as he drifted even further into sleep, he knew he had come home.

His companion was true to his word, for when John awoke next, the bandages had been removed and he could see. Curiosity eating at him, he lifted his head and looked about him. He was hoping to at last see the face of his companion, but sadly he found himself alone. Still sore, he took stock of his surroundings. A small cottage perhaps, it appeared to have only one room. There was the fireplace with a kettle over the fire, from it he could smell a wonderful stew cooking. There was a small table in the center of the room. He didn't see any signs of another bed, but he could if he craned his neck, he could see where his companion had been sleeping. A bedroll neatly folded was by the door. There was a pack slung over the chair that was pushed against the table. He recognized it as his own.

Slowly he sat up, taking stock as he did so. He was stiff, and still a little sore, but feeling much better. The movement sparked a tiny bit of headache, but he massaged his temple lightly and it receded. He could see a bit of countryside through the cabin's only window, just a hint of trees and sunlight. Unable to tell where he was from that, he returned to the inspection of the cabin itself.

There was a chest of some strange and beautiful design against the wall next to the head of his bed. He thought he recognised the carving on it, Aunt Suffield's chest had be similarly decorated. His curiosity seriously aroused he moved slowly to kneel beside it. Hoping he would find it unlocked, he tested the lid. Locked. Whomever his companion was he was a careful sort. From where he knelt on the floor he could also see something under the bed that he had been laying on. Stretching carefully, he reached under the bed to pull his find into the light.

A quiver of arrows, dusty and long unused, and a bow, unstrung and equally dusty. He smothered a gasp of delight. He ran wondering fingers over the curve of the bow. It was beautiful, delicate green and adorned with silver design, it was obviously a weapon for someone of great skill. It measured a good five feet from tip to tip, a long bow, if he remembered his weaponry. There was no string for it, but he tested it anyhow, trying to bend the wood. It resisted even his greatest attempt. Whomever had drawn this had been a person of great strength. He put the bow carefully aside and drew forth one of the arrows. It's straight shaft a deep emerald color, he could tell it had been fletched by hand, and the tip was a metal of such that he had never seen before. He tested the point, to find it was still sharp. The fletching was made from golden feathers, carefully trimmed, he couldn't recognise their source. The quiver made from a carefully tanned hide, also was a thing of beauty. There was a well worn patina to the leather, also reinforcing his thought that these were well loved items. But why would they be hidden under a bed, of all places? These things only caused him to wonder more about his surroundings and carefully he replaced them. He didn't want to be found prying. Questions whirling in his mind, John carefully climbed back into his bed. If he was lucky he might be able to get some answers from him companion when he returned.

John waited for what seemed eternity for his companion to return. His curiosity made greater with each passing hour. He couldn't tell time of day very well, his watch appeared to be broken, and what light came from the single window was dim at best. He passed the time remembering things his Aunt had told him, family stories if you would. He knew them all by heart for they had caught at his mind, keeping him a willing captive. And now, in this place, he could understand some of them.

At last the door opened and John turned his head carefully. He was disappointed however, his companion carried a load of wood and his face was hidden by several logs. However, he knew the figure entering the cabin. The grace with which it moved, the long silhouette, these things he remembered from that train station so long ago. As his companion came further into the room, light from the window highlit the hair falling onto his shoulders. It was much longer than most men wore, falling brightly golden to his shoulders. It seemed too silky to be a man's and John was reminded of Ethel's hair. The stranger was dressed in loose clothing of a dark shade. John couldn't tell the exact color, it appeared to be a cross between black and green, but it made the fair hair even lighter in appearance.

But it was when the stranger knelt to lay the logs on the hearth that John saw what he was seeking. The hair parted for an instant, giving him the curve and slight point of an ear. John closed his eyes for a moment, mouth dry and heart pounding. IT was true then. All the stories, the Red Book, all of it. And the proof was kneeling not ten feet from him. He must have made a sound, because the Elf at the hearth startled slightly and turned to face him.

John felt his heart freeze when he got his first adult glimpse of the face he had dreamed of. Long and lean, with skin as fair as porcelain, it was a face most women would die to possess. He could see the eyes that he remembered, and if possible thought they were even more sad now than they had been. They were pools of sapphire, deeper and more aged than the face would let him believe.

"You are awake." the elf spoke. He hadn't moved from his place but was watching John. There was a confidence in the lean body and when at last he did move, the grace took John's breath away. He stood and moved around the table.

"I know you. Legolas. The Prince of Mirkwood." John found his voice at last. The elf froze. He looked at John for a moment and John thought he saw a hunger in those eyes, but it vanished almost instantly.

"Some have called me that." The elf spoke cautiously. He leaned against the table's edge and folded his arms. John noticed that he hid the useless hand and it was then he understood the bow's hiding place.

"We have called you Ghost." John said softly. Legolas inclined his head, he had heard the appellation before and it faintly amused him. "How?"

"I have no answer for that, young Tolkien. None that would satisfy and the one who would, has been gone for more time than you could understand." The elf dropped his gaze and turned abruptly.

John, suddenly eager, swung his legs off the side of the bed. He had to KNOW, had to ask a thousand questions that trembled on the tip of his tongue. Through all of his questions, the elf stood, face turned away, each question a whiplash of pain, the tensing of muscle and occasional flinch, visible if John would see. But in his eagerness he didn't see how his questions, innocent though they were, laid the soul of the elven prince bare.

Legolas endured the interrogation far longer than he thought he could. The eager young man reminded him of someone, but he couldn't remember the name. Too much time, too many memories. Perhaps it was this that led him to tell far more of his story to the young human. Perhaps it was just that for the first time in countless centuries, someone had spoken his name. He felt the loneliness of his existence swell up inside him and threaten what little sanity he had remaining. Unable to bear any more, he slammed his fist into the table, cracking it like an eggshell. The young man jumped and his voice ceased.

"Enough." Legolas growled through the pain. "Cease your prattle, human, you do not know what you ask of me." he heard the anger in his voice but didn't care. Indirectly this young human was the cause of his pain. He whirled to face the young Man, still sitting frozen on the edge of the bed. The anger and hatred he felt welled up in him and blazed from his eyes.

John swallowed convulsively. There was a deep hatred in those eyes now. It frightened him and he knew that he would be powerless against the elf, should he decide to act on that hatred. The elf stood, blinded by hatred for the longest time. John was unable to look away from the blazing sapphire eyes. Slowly the hatred died away, leaving only the sadness and hurt that he had seen earlier. The Prince, for he could think of him no other way, turned silently and before John could react he was gone.

"What happened to you?" he whispered to the closing door. He sat in thought for a moment then like a light being turned on, he remembered something that he had read in the Red Book. The memory made him ill. He knew what had happened and he knew why. He just didn't know how to end it.

_1973_

He was dying. He could feel it in his body, the ending of life, like a valve being shut off ever so slowly. He was tired, very tired. He supposed in a way that might be because he was old, but he hadn't felt tired before. He wanted to raise his hand to wipe away the film from his eyes, but the effort was greater than the need. Yet, even tired as he was, he could still think, and he knew the bitterness of regret.

He still had so much to do, and a promise to be kept. Yet, he was only mortal and that mortality was playing an evil trick on him now. There would be no elf to heal his hurt this time, no guardian angel to keep the dark angel at bay. He sighed softly. If only, rang in his heart. If only he could have done what he had promised.

He had tried to tell the story, tried to make people see. And in the doing so, hoped that he would find the ending he was desperately searching for. He had taken the Red Book from it's place, painstakingly translated it, and had given it to the world. And the world had not heard him. It had not been ready for the truth. Bitterness tinged his mind, not even those he had cared so much for understood his work. The true story of the Ring, they could not comprehend.

_No_. He faced his truth. He had failed. He had made a promise and had failed miserably at keeping it. He could no more free the Prince of Mirkwood, than he could halt his own demise. He apologized to the lost soul hoping that the apology would span the distance separating them. He would not dare to hope that he might once again gaze upon that fair face, to be able to tender his regret in person. He had not seen the Elf these many years since the War; the memory of their parting as fresh as the memory of yesterday.

Out in the hall, John could hear the gathering that was his family. He frowned at the whispered arguments, the low tones of dissension that ruled his world now. He was very afraid for the future of his work. There was not one among his children who had shown even the slightest interest in the Truth. He knew they thought he had cracked. They didn't have to say so to his face, it was evident in their every move concerning him or his estate. Cautious questions, raised eyebrows, and smothered whispers, all told him what was going on. He was old but he wasn't stupid.

There was only one person he could trust with the Truth, a friend that he had known for several years. He could only hope that the friend might find in his heirs someone worthy of continuing the quest. He had written Christopher over the holiday, asking him to come. They had spent many a long evening discussing the Red Book and the lost soul. Christopher had done his best to aid the ailing author when it became apparent that there was to be no family involvement.

So it was that the Red Book would pass out of the hands of the family that had held it for so many centuries, and into the hands of Christopher Lee, actor, scholar and friend. John had carefully shared the book with Christopher over the years, cautiously sounding out the young actor. When he had shown that he was capable of grasping the reality of the unreal situation, John had shown him the artifacts carefully hidden in the attic. He had allowed him to read the Red Book for himself; had entrusted this legacy into the hands of someone not of the Blood of Aragorn.

Christopher had readily agreed to become the caretaker. He was sworn to secrecy, to observing the family, and if in time no one proved worthy, of finding yet another guardian for the Book. He had promised him that he would continue the saga, continue with John's quest to free the elf. In fact Christopher was currently researching some ancient occult texts, hoping to find the key that would unlock the chains that bound the Prince. But now, John's time was running out. He could feel the creeping weakness invading him, and knew it wouldn't be too long. There came a sound from the hall, the children were arguing again. He closed his eyes and took a labored breath. Then another. A scent of the deep woods filled his senses, calming his soul and he knew that he was no longer alone.

"I am sorry, my Prince." his aged voice cracked with his regret.

"Do not be, young Tolkien." the soft voice spoke close to his ear. John smiled wryly before opening his eyes. The sapphire depths of the Prince were but inches from him. The Elf knelt beside his bed, the sadness intensified in his eyes. John raised a finger and for the first time, touched the Elf. Legolas didn't draw away from the questing finger but allowed it to trace his cheek. John marvelled at the smooth softness of skin that he felt. He reached out and touched the gold that was the Elf's hair. It was longer than he remembered but now in this time, long hair was all the rage.

"Softer than silk." he whispered. He chuckled slightly. "How I envy you. Young forever."

"I would envy your death..." Legolas whispered. The loneliness he felt shone in his eyes and John again apologized. "Do not. It is my burden not yours."

Legolas knelt beside the bed until the last breath left the body of the only human to name him in centuries. As he watched the mortal pass, he felt the breaking of his heart once again. He had watched so many of Aragorn's children pass through the veil, how many more must he hold vigil with until his debt was paid? How long must he endure for loving his King? The questions were old questions. Ones asked often and as often unanswered. Only one had cared to see him for who he had been, only one cared to try to end this torment. Now that one was dead. Legolas felt the weight of his curse grow as fresh as the day Arwen had cast it.

A tear made it's way slowly down the elven cheek to drop on the face of the man who had given him hope. Legolas stood and placed the gentle kiss of peace on the cooling brow.

"When you see them, tell them I still live." he whispered.

_TBC if you wish..._


	3. Chapter 2

Truth: Chapter Two

With a heartfelt sigh, she wiped the condensation from the mirror. Deft hands applied the bare minimum of cosmetics, giving her normally pale complexion hints of color. The faint freckles across her nose and cheeks were hidden by the application; her somewhat anemic green eyes made to look darker by the eye shadow. A swift brush, tugged through the curls, tamed her wild hair into some semblance of sedate style. The simple black dress, a standard for any occasion, hugged her figure; making her slightly self-conscious. She frowned momentarily at the neckline, the scoop dropping a bit lower than she liked. A quick search through her closet brought an emerald silk stole from the back; she fussed with its drape briefly until at last she was satisfied. She glanced at the clock, there was still half an hour before the "boys" were due to pick her up. The flutter of butterflies in her stomach churned and she swallowed against them. She kept repeating the assurances she'd been given by the boys to herself, using the words as a talisman against the panic that threatened.

'Nah, there won't be hardly anyone there," Sean's voice played in her mind; echoed by both Orly and Elijah. "Just us. It's just going to be us, promise." Still the thought of this 'party' made her nervous. Even though she was more than familiar and comfortable with the group. She'd come to regard the boys as family over the past several years; but still... she shook herself sharply. _There is nothing to fear _she thought forcing her racing heart to calm; using the meditation techniques she'd learned.

The honk of the horn sent her pulse racing for a moment. She took several deep breaths, picturing a still, calm pond of deep water; she held the visualization as she scooped up her small clutch and opened the door; stepping into the night. The dark limo waiting outside her tiny flat gave her a moment's pause, but the fair head popping through the window with Sean's friendly grin eased her nerves better than any medication. She could see Orly and Elijah sitting inside as Sean opened the door for her. Their faces smiling, eyes twinkling. With her boys along, what could possibly happen? She thought as she slid into the depths of the limo.

Nearly an hour later, she stared in horror at the madhouse outside the limo's window.

"How could you?" she whispered, voice nearly gone at the sight of the crowd waiting for them. Sean shared a look with the others.

"Breeze, honey, nothing will happen, I promise," he said guilt beginning. Orlando reached across him to touch Breeze on the shoulder.

"Little sister, we won't let anything happen to you." he also promised. She flinched at the contact, face paling even further as the limo inched closer to the theater.

"No, I don't want to do this," she said softly, shaking her head. Her hands tightened on her clutch, knuckles white. Sean could feel the tremors that shook her slim shoulders.

"Breeze, we're right here with you," he whispered into her ear. "We won't let anything happen to you."

"No," she continued to protest. She turned away from the crowd to look at her friends. Her lip trembled and her eyes grew luminous with tears of sheer terror. "No, I can't."

"Yes you can," Elijah said. He reached across and pulled one icy hand into his. "Everyone is waiting for you, Breeze. Viggo, Chris, Ian... they're already here and we really really want you with us tonight. Please, Breeze?"

Breeze twisted her clutch in her hands, panic making her pulse pound. She could barely breathe as she gazed at the crowd outside the safety of the limo. She shook her head once more, there was no way that she was going to step into _that_. She closed her eyes, biting her lip against the scream of sheer terror that filled her throat.

Elijah looked at Sean, then at the panic stricken Breeze. "Honey, we'll be right here, right beside you. We won't leave you alone for even a second. No one will hurt you." He promised, keeping his voice low and soothing. He nodded to Orly, who tapped on the window, gaining the driver's attention. He cracked the slider and whispered to the driver who slowed the limo even further. Sean rubbed the icy hand that he held, knowing from experience that the tactile contact would help Breeze focus through the panic. Elijah kept talking, using his voice to anchor her. Slowly, the tremors stopped and her breathing resumed a more normal pace.

"I should kill you all," she whispered, voice cracking. She opened her eyes, staring at each of them accusingly. "You know better than this."

"Breeze, honey," Orly said softly. "It's just a party. Everyone from New Zealand will be there. Those people," he gestured at the crowd, "they won't get past the door."

"We swear that we won't leave your side." Elijah joined in. "We'll stay with you the entire time." He glanced out the window, they were almost to the front of the theater. "Christopher is there, see?" he pointed to the tall, lean actor standing on the red carpet. "And there's Viggo and Henry."

"You've come this far," Sean added. "You've managed to come this far, Breeze. Remember when you first came to the shoot? How hard it was for you to be on the sets? We got you through that, didn't we? We didn't allow anything to happen to you then. Trust us now."

"Half…" she swallowed hard. "Half an hour. I'll stay for half an hour. But then I want to go home."

The boys shared a look, Elijah speaking again. "But I thought you wanted to see the premier?"

She shook her head. "Not that badly."

"Compromise, little sister," Orly interjected. "Why don't we get inside and then you can decide? Cause seriously, luv, there won't be a big crowd, and it's a large theater."

The limo halted in front of the carpet covered entrance. Over Orly's shoulder, Elijah could see Christopher coming down to meet them. He personally was relieved, Christopher could talk Breeze into just about anything; having known her since childhood. If anyone could get her out of the car, it would be he. One of the porters opened the door and Christopher slid inside, making Orly jump slightly.

"Come now," he said, his deep voice chiding. "What's all this?"

"They lied to me," Breeze whimpered as the sounds of the crowd grew louder. She could see the flashes of cameras and hear the yells and screams of the fans.

"Of course they did," Christopher said with a smile. "How else to get you to leave that tiny flat of yours?" He patted her shoulder. "They did exactly as I told them too."

Breeze shot him a look of pure hatred. "You told them to lie to me?"

"Of course," he shrugged. "Someone from the family needs to be here. And since you are the one who gave us permission for this, then that someone is you." He opened the door allowing Orly, Sean and Elijah to escape. True to their word, they didn't leave the side of the car, posing and mugging for the cameras while Christopher talked "sense" into Breeze. "Breeze you must be here." He said softly. "You know that as well as I do. This is the _one_ chance you have to pull him from the shadows where he stays. It is _this_ that will bring him to you."

"Are you certain, Christopher?" she asked softly. "Are you certain he will come?"

"Certain?" he shook his head. "No, but if anything will bring him out, it should be this."

Breeze flinched when Christopher opened the door once more. "All right," she gave in. "Let's do it."


	4. Chapter 3

Truth: Chapter Three

Frodo set aside his quill, dusting sand lightly over the page he'd just finished. From the direction of the kitchen, he could smell elevenses and hear the sound of Sam singing softly as he set the table. A small smile touched his face as he remembered the day Sam had come walking up to the door, his pack over his shoulders, elven cloak firmly in place. He had thought Sam gone forever, left behind on the docks.

"A ship came for me, Mr. Frodo," he'd said softly. "It came, and…" he ducked his head. "here I am." Sam scuffed his foot on the path. "If you want me that is…?"

"Oh Sam, my Sam."

"Frodo," Sam's voice drifted down the hallway. "Gimli should be here any minute, are you finished?"

"Aye Sam," he answered. "Is Uncle Bilbo awake?"

Sam came into the study, wiping his hands on a towel. He smirked slightly. "No, he's snoring loud enough to scare a troll." He flipped the towel, now neatly folded, over his shoulder. "You want I should wake him?"

Frodo shook his head. "No, let him sleep." He sighed, placing the cap on the bottle of ink and wiping the quill carefully. His shoulder pulled a bit and he rubbed it in reflex. Sam clucked his tongue and with gentle fingers began to massage the offending joint.

"You should be more careful," he chided. "I don't want you going and hurtin yourself."

"It's all right Sam, really it is." Frodo assured him. "I just moved it a little wrong."

"That's what you always say," Sam replied. "But it still pains you." Frodo moved away from Sam's hands, standing up. He shook his head at the look on Sam's face. "Even after all this time."

"It reminds me," Frodo whispered. "It helps me remember…"

"As if we could forget."

"Sometimes, Sam," Frodo continued. "Sometimes, I do forget."

"As do I," A gruff voice from the door to the study added. Both turned to see Gimli standing there. "It's this place." The dwarf shook his head. "This place takes the memory from us all."

His eyes went to the drawings, lovingly hung on the wall. He crossed the room. "If it weren't for these…" He stared at the faces of the Fellowship; Aragorn, Boromir, Merry, Pippin; all there, except one. Legolas. Only the elf was missing. Each time Frodo drew the elf, the page would slowly blank, the lines disappearing as if they'd never been drawn. "If it weren't for these, I would think it was nothing but a dream."

"A nightmare," Sam agreed.

"I miss them," Frodo said joining Gimli in front of the pictures. "I miss the sound of Aragorn singing by the fire, Merry and Pippin squabbling. I even miss Boromir's snores…"

"Aye laddie," Gimli's already gruff voice grew even harsher. Both Sam and Frodo laid a hand on his shoulders. They knew who he was thinking of; the friendship between elf and dwarf had transcended race into the bonds of brotherhood. "It isn't right." The dwarf's whispered words echoed what was in their hearts.

"No it isn't." Frodo agreed. He turned away from the wall, away from the accusing eyes of his friends. "It isn't." He stared out the window for a long moment, all thoughts of food gone; his mind on the far distant shores and their lost companion. "That does it." He announced without warning. He whirled and with his head up, looked at Sam and Gimli. "It isn't fair and it isn't right. And I'm going to do something about it."

Gandalf stood on the shoreline. He gazed out to the horizon, lost in reverie. Behind him, birds sang and the sun shone with the soft intensity that was Valinor. He leaned heavily on his staff, the weight of his sorrow transferring to the symbol of his power. His piercing blue eyes saw beyond the scene of tranquility before him, into the world beyond, into the world that had become one elf's prison.

"Mithrandir." a voice behind him broke into the reverie. He turned slowly, knowing who stood behind him. The vision before him was one of great beauty and power. Galadriel she had been named once. Lady of Light, the most beautiful of all the elves. She joined him at the shores edge, turning her starlight gaze out on the waves. She did not speak but stood for several long moments. Then she turned her eyes to his.

"He is losing." she spoke softly, sadness deepening her whisper. Gandalf nodded. "There is nothing we can do for him."

Gandalf closed his eyes in pain. He felt so helpless, being forced to watch from afar as the truest of the elves faced his trials. His reply wasn't needed; she knew the answer as did he. The Lost One he had been named on these shores. The few that remembered him still called his name to the stars, hoping to bring him home. The wonder that was Valinor erased pain and in time, memory. Each turning saw fewer gather to call to the Lost One. Soon none would remember. Galadriel closed her eyes. She bowed her head and in that moment, at her feet, a small flower took root. It grew quickly, leaves opened and a bud appeared. The flower opened to reveal petals of the purest black. A delicate fragrance perfumed the air, calling to the sadness that Gandalf himself felt.

"Is there no hope?" she spoke again.

"She will try. And she will fail." Gandalf's voice cracked slightly. "The curse cannot be broken." he paused for a moment. "Only in death will he gain peace."

Galadriel nodded her understanding. She glanced back over her shoulder. She could see, coming through the trees, three figures. Shorter than elves, she knew them without needing to see their faces, Frodo, the Ring Bearer and his companions Sam and Gimli the Dwarf. She sighed lightly. "We shall have to tell them."

Gandalf followed her gaze. He too could see the trio in the trees. He knew Galadriel was right but it wasn't something he wanted to do. The trio had been the most steadfast in their devotion to the lost elf. Their persistence had led to the continued attempts to call him. Even Thranduil would have given up long ago if not for them. Their voices came on the breeze, carrying pieces of conversation.

"We'll just have to do it." Frodo was saying as they joined their elders on the shore.

"Do what, Frodo?" Gandalf asked the hobbit. He marveled at the change in Frodo. Valinor had been good for the hobbit. Gone were the lines of strain at last. There was peace in the blue eyes that looked so earnestly at him.

"We," he indicated Gimli and Sam. "Want to do something."

"Yes, we do." Sam chimed in.

"It's been too long. And we mean to do something about it." Gimli growled, challenge in his words and stance. Gandalf noted that it was directed to Galadriel more than towards himself.

"I am sorry, Gimli." Gandalf said softly. He knew that his next words would not be well received. "There is nothing we can do." Gimli muttered a dwarfish curse and scuffed his foot into the sand.

"What do you mean Gandalf?" Frodo challenged. He tilted his head back to meet the wizard's eyes. Every line in the small hobbit's body lent credence to the challenge. Frodo wasn't going to let this go easily. Gandalf closed his eyes and bowed his head. He shook it slowly, sadness in his every move.

"Frodo, we cannot affect the outside world. That is the price of Valinor."

"Then it is too high!" Frodo insisted. "We can't leave him there."

"We've waited like you asked, Mr. Gandalf." Sam added his voice. He wasn't as certain as Frodo, even after all this time, he still held awe of the wizard. "We have waited so long, it's time for Leg…" Galadriel hissed softly. Sam's eyes darted guiltily to her and he hung his head. "That's his name, Legolas. Not the 'Lost One." truculence added weight to his simple sentence.

"Yes, Sam is right. His name is Legolas." Frodo spoke the name sharply, daring Galadriel to speak. His defiance of elven custom brought a slight smile to Gandalf. "He is one of us." Frodo indicated the remnants of the Fellowship. "He is one of us. And he needs to come home."

Frodo shifted on his feet, head cocked looking up into Gandalf's face. Gimli hung his head and Sam managed to look elsewhere. Suddenly Gandalf understood. More clearly than he had before. Understood their defiance, their unswerving devotion. So many of their tiny fellowship had stayed behind to be lost forever. Pippin, Merry, Aragorn… all gone now. Remembered only in songs sung infrequently and tales told in hushed whispers in the twilight. Time had taken everything from these small fellows, and Gandalf understood their desire. They were right.

He nodded in agreement. "Frodo, you are right. We have forgotten that he is one of you." he looked at them standing there in the twilight. Three small figures that had brought so much to a world that had forgotten them, had named them fairy tale. He thought about the one doomed to roam in a half existence through no fault of his own. He turned his gaze out to the sea for a moment. No sound interrupted his thoughts this time. A small frown creased his brow, and he turned sharply to the waiting four.

"Come. We shall see what an old wizard, a dwarf and two hobbits can do." he looked to Galadriel to see a soft smile on her lips. "We can only try."

Gimli growled, a light in his eyes now that hadn't been there in a long time. Frodo whooped and grabbed Sam's hand in excitement.

"Follow me. We go to the Grove." Gandalf announced. He took his staff in hand tightly and started toward the tree line.

Galadriel watched the four figures walk toward the trees. Her gaze followed them until they disappeared from her sight. Slowly, she turned back to the horizon of the sea. A stray breeze caught her hair and tugged strands toward the far distant line where the sky met the waves. Her blue eyes turned outward, seeking a glimpse of something, someone. At her feet, next to the newly opened flower, another bud appeared. Its petals unfurled to reveal a flower of the purest white. A scent of sweet hope joined the bittersweet perfume of loss.

"Legolas." her whisper wafted over the waves. Hope bloomed in her heart replacing many turnings of despair.

_"Legolas."_ a whisper broke through his reverie. A note of sadness plucked at his heart. He remembered that voice, even though it was carried on the wind of memory, he knew who spoke his name. He sat up quickly, searching the depths of the room he rested in. The darkness was not a challenge to his eyes. Quietly and quickly, he picked his way out of the room, he made his way out into the small yard in back.

He tossed his head up, searching the sky, his nose flaring to catch a scent. His hope crashed as he saw only the clouds scudding past, and only smelled the exhaust and poisons of the modern world. He stood staring up in to the clouds for a moment, gathering himself. He reined in the bitterness that was his life ruthlessly. He shivered slightly, not from cold, for elves felt not heat or cold; but at the memory that the wind brought to him. The memory of tall trees, open spaces, friends... his world. His _home. _For several minutes, he could see his world, could smell it, taste it on his tongue. But the spell didn't last and when it broke, so did his heart.

"My world is dead." he said turning his gaze back to the sky.

The clouds broke to reveal the palest sliver of moon. It's weak light shone dappled on the ground around them. Legolas could see so much in those shadows. It's wavering light made them resemble the pieces of his memory. As he watched, the pieces obliged and began to form into fragments, finally leading him down the road he had long chosen to forget...

_Aragorn's head was bent over the bed. Legolas could hear his ragged breathing. His mind was foggy, clouded by the bitter medicine that he could still taste. Had he been ill? His mind couldn't focus well enough to remember._

_"Aragorn?" his voice was weak and cracked. It hurt to speak. The dark head jerked upright. Aragorn's face was haggard, his eyes red and swollen from weeping. "My King?"_

_"Legolas." the was a wealth of-relief?-in the voice. Aragorn laid a hand on his brow, testing for fever. "The fever has broken, thank the gods." He smiled warmly at Legolas._

_"What?" Legolas tried to force the words he wanted to speak through the fog of his mind, but he was too weak. It was too difficult to remember._

_"Hush, dear friend. Do not try too hard. You have been gravely injured." There was sadness in Aragorn's eyes now. Legolas could read it there easily. Aragorn laid a finger on Legolas's lips. "Sleep more, Legolas, mellon nin. Rest. Once you are stronger we will talk."_

_"Slept too long already." he managed to say. But even as he protested he could feel the lethargy reaching for him once more. Fear claimed him as he started to slip away. Something waited for him in the darkness of his mind. Something terrible. "Afraid..." he whispered._

_"No need to fear." Aragorn whispered. "I will be here." The King took up the injured hand and held it gently. The last thing Legolas saw, before sleep claimed him, were the tears streaming down Aragorn's face once more. He tried to reassure his friend that he would be all right, but the effort was too much for him._

Legolas forced that memory away. He didn't want to remember that time. Preferred to bury it deep inside himself alongside the memory of the betrayal.


	5. Chapter 4

*_I am truly sorry for the delay. I recently moved and discovered that I'm now in internet hades. Old houses do NOT promote wireless access... hoping today to get that issue resolved. So... while I have internet, here's the next installment. I apologize for the brevity of this posting, but this is where it needed to end... for the moment. Enjoy! Let me know what you all think... I live for feedback! -Shado.*_

Truth: Chapter Four

True to their word, the boys surrounded her the moment she exited the limo, Christopher at her side. The group ushered her into the middle and ran interference, their antics drawing people's attention from her. Breeze could barely breathe, the panic almost overwhelming her nerve. But the trip up the red carpet was quickly accomplished and soon she was inside the theater.

The crowd was much less, but still present. To her great relief she saw friendly faces around every corner. True, there were still strangers present but not nearly as many. The group paused often, keeping a close, watchful eye on her. Christopher managed to deflect most and those who insisted upon approaching her, quickly found it most difficult to get any closer. She could almost smile as one particularly pushy fellow was deterred by Viggo's glare. The Dane could be quite intimidating; something he'd learned on the set; a skill he now used with ease.

Sean pushed a glass of champagne into her hand, his gentle smile comforting. "You look like you could use this." He said softly, putting himself between her and the room. "How you holding up?"

"Surprisingly well," she said honestly, sipping the sparkling liquid. She frowned slightly at the taste, alcohol wasn't something she enjoyed as a general rule.

"Well, the screening will be starting soon, think you can make it?"

"Yes," she replied. "It's not as bad as I thought it would be. You guys are doing a great job of keeping the wolves away."

"Our pleasure, Little Sister," Orly said joining them, brown eyes twinkling with mischief. "We live to serve."

"Right," she said with a grimace. "You live to torment me."

"I'm wounded," he exclaimed, clasping a hand over his heart. He faked a stagger, bumping into Viggo who was a few feet behind him. Before the Dane could react, Orly squealed like a girl and threw his arms around him. "You must save me, filthy human! The Woman has poisoned my heart with her accusations!"

Viggo chuckled as Orly moaned and groaned as if dying. "I'm sure the immortal Elf will survive."

"Nay, I'm fair wounded. Felled at last by the words of a mortal…." Orly gagged and gasped. "Tell my father…. Tell him, human, that his son… died a … brave…. Death." He rolled his eyes back and sagged against Viggo, feigning death.

Breeze felt her throat close; Orly's words bringing back to her the horrible fate that had in truth befallen the Elven Prince. She turned away quickly, feeling sick to her soul.

"Breeze?" Sean asked suddenly concerned at her pallor. "Breeze, hon, what's wrong?" She shook her head, not trusting her voice; the words written in the Red Book swimming before her.

_For days he lay, wounded; near death. Aragorn sent for every healer in Middle Earth to tend his shield-brother, his friend. Yet none seemed able to offer any comfort to the grieving King. No remedy was untried. In despair, Aragorn called for a swift rider to travel from the White City to the tower of Isengard; where the Ents still kept a watchful eye over the now dead Saruman's books, begging for assistance or at least access to the knowledge locked in the Tower._

_In the early morning dawn of the third day of the fourth week, Treebeard himself came striding majestically up the city streets, in his arms tomes of old; his deep voice singing softly a song of the Ents. Aragorn met the ancient Ent with a cry of welcome, hope kindling once more in his breast._

_Legolas was carefully moved to the base of the White Tree, where Treebeard waited. The Ent took many hours, examining the wasted body. At last the Ent turned sorrowful eyes upon the face of the King and spoke the words of doom._

_"He has been cursed. Such a curse as I have not seen in more years that I can count." The Ent's voice echoed in the courtyard. _

_"Cursed?"_

_"Aye," the Ent rumbled. "I can heal the body, but not the soul. It has been wounded beyond all magick, Entish, Elvish or Man's." Treebeard shook his head slowly. "I am sorry, young Mortal."_

_"Who?" Aragorn asked. "Who would…" his voice choked off as the knowledge came upon him suddenly. "Arwen." He whispered softly._

_Treebeard nodded wisely. "It reeks of blood and death." The Ent agreed. "If it was cast as the Queen died, then it would be more powerful." He looked down at the elf. "And, with her death, it was bound and cannot be unbound. A curse such as this can only be undone by the caster…" He moved his hand over Legolas. "It cannot be undone, sealed by blood and death, indeed."_

Breeze shuddered, her stomach pitching uncomfortably. _I'm going to be sick,_ she thought. She looked wildly around for the restroom. "I think I'm going to be sick," she whispered to Sean. He quickly took the champagne flute, set it on the tray of a passing waiter and grabbed her elbow.

"Over here," he said softly, glaring at Orly.

"What did _I _do?" Orly said confused, arms still wrapped around Viggo's neck. The Dane shrugged. "What did I _do_?" he said again to the room in general.

Sean cut through the crowd with brusque efficiency. Breeze swallowed harshly, gorge rising as Sean pushed open the door to the ladies room. He took a quick look around, then ushered her inside.

"Here," he said gently, concerning lighting his eyes. "I'll wait outside, keep anyone from interrupting you. Take all the time you need."

"Thank you." She managed to whisper. She barely heard the door close, her body rebelling against the miniscule amount of champagne. She heaved until nothing was left, then rinsed her mouth with cool water from the tap. But still she felt sick, sick to the very depths of her soul. In her ears, Christopher's voice whispered; describing the Prince in her grandfather's words.

_"He is fair, more than any human could hope or believe. But it is his eyes that haunt me; give me no peace. When first I looked into them, I could see only the passage of Time, for he has seen more years pass than ever recorded. Yet, as I held his gaze, I could see such Madness, such rage, that I could only fear for my own life. And yet he tended me as if I were the most precious of objects, his every touch gentle and soothing. The Red Book tells how the One Ring slowly drove Gollum mad with its hate; even the gentle hobbit Bilbo felt its evil in time. I can only believe that the hate which Arwen felt for the Prince has done the same. I fear the Prince of the Greenwood is no longer sane; the passage of time and the curse laid upon him have all but destroyed the Elf that fought so bravely with my ancestor."_

Breeze shook her head, "Stupid, stupid girl." She whispered staring at her reflection. "This was a stupid idea. To think that _you_ might be able to help." She opened her clutch digging into it, searching for her compact. Angry strokes repaired the damage to her makeup and she tossed the compact back into her clutch, closing it with a decided snap. She looked herself over, anger and hurt warring within her; driving out the soul sickness. "Best to just go home. It's not like you could save him anyway."

"Why?" The voice was smooth and cold as it washed over her. Breeze froze in place, raising her eyes once more to her reflection. She was no longer alone in the mirror. "Why would _you_ wish to save _me_?"


	6. Chapter 5

Truth: Chapter Five

_*A Note from Shado: Ok, in this chapter I'm going to exercise a little artistic license. In reading the Silmarillion and other works, the description of Valinor and the Undying Lands, at least to me appears a little vague. So in comes my own interpretation of what it must be like. I personally believe that it bears a resemblance to a paradisiacal island where each of the Valar has influenced their "part" to reflect themselves. I have also taken a few liberties with the descriptions of the Valar; I can only hope that I don't offend anyone with my artistic licenses. Personally I have always disliked the use of the Royal pronouns, however in this case…. They fit. All standard disclaimers apply; the core characters belong solely to Tolkien, with the exception of Breeze… she's totally my own creation. Hope you enjoy.*_

Gandalf led the way deep into the heart of the island that was Valinor. He listened with only half an ear to the soft whispers of his three companions; his mind bent toward the arguments he would place before the Valar. He would have to use all his persuasion to sway them into allowing this venture. In his soul he wasn't certain he _could_ sway them. To come to Valinor was to set aside all interaction with the world that was once Middle Earth; that was its price. It was a place of peace and safety for the people it housed. Created by the Valar as a refuge; and a protection for the young race of Men.

"We could steal a boat…" Gimli's voice broke into Gandalf's concentration. He stopped mid-stride to glare at the dwarf.

"One does not steal a white ship, Master Dwarf," he said sternly. Gimli harrumphed glancing upwards briefly. "The magic that brings them here," Gandalf gentled his tone. "Also prevents them from being stolen. They can only sail with the blessing of Ulmo, Lord of the Sea."

"Gandalf," Frodo asked, his voice low. "You don't truly believe they will help, do you?"

"That, I cannot answer, Frodo," he replied honestly, pushing through the tall grasses. "The Valar have long kept separate from the affairs of the World Beyond." He glanced at the small trio. "But it never hurts to ask." He said with a small smile.

_"Indeed Olórin, it does not." _The words swirled around them, like soft chimes carried on the breeze. Only there was no breeze. The path they were on shifted beneath their feet, a gentle _ bending_ and suddenly, they were no longer in a field, but in a garden of sorts. The sun which had shone so gently upon them, was replaced by twilight. The plants, if they were such; that filled the garden, shone with strange luminescence; and their perfume reminded one of the deep night. Gandalf dropped to a knee, his head bent. With his free hand he gestured for the others to do the same.

"My Queen," he whispered as the trio knelt next to him.

_"Ah, Olórin, it has been long since you have come to visit with Us." _The voice chided. _"We had thought that perhaps you had forgotten."_

"No, my Queen," he protested.

_"And whom do you bring to Our garden? We do not know these stars."_

"I bring the Heroes of the Third age, my Queen. Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee and Gimli son of Glóin."

_"So, you have come at last, Ring-bearer. We had not thought it would take so long."_

Frodo found his voice, though it was not as strong as he would have liked. "You know why we've come then?"

_"Yes."_

"Will you help us?"

Silence fell and remained for some time. The only sounds were the shifting of the plants and their own heart beats. But at last, the voice answered. _"Our Lord husband, Manwë has decreed the elven Prince lost to Us." _Gimli muttered a protest that was shushed harshly by Gandalf. _"To help you would risk his wrath."_

Gimli growled under his breath, too softly for Gandalf to hear; yet the voice answered. _"Not all in life is fair or right, Master Gimli. Our Lord husband has his reasons for His decree."_

"What reason could there be for condemning a soul such as his?" Frodo asked sharply. "He did nothing wrong! He served his King; he **bled **for him. What was wrong in that? He fought to save Middle Earth as much as any of us did. Why?" Frodo's voiced raised to almost a shout. "I'll tell you why. Because he believed, as we did, that Sauron must be destroyed; that Middle Earth must survive." From his place next to Gandalf the small Hobbit rose to his feet. "All that he did was for nothing. Legolas spent his life fighting to protect the world that **_you_** abandoned."

"Frodo!" Gandalf hissed in warning. "Be careful of what and to whom you speak."

_"Nay, Olórin, let the Ring-bearer have his say." _ The voice said softly. _"We are listening."_

"If any deserve to come here, to find peace," Frodo's voice cracked with his emotion. "It is him." He dashed a hand across his cheek, brushing it dry. "Even after the Ring was destroyed, he fought to protect Middle Earth from Orcs and the armies that scattered. He fought to protect his King and his people. He held true to the belief that the world of Men must prosper; he bled for that belief. And," Frodo's voice broke completely. He looked away, to the ground at his feet. Gimli whispered, his voice a soft growl of pain.

"He was betrayed by Arwen. Betrayed by the whispers of the court. People who should have known him best, turned against him. The one who had done nothing wrong, cursed for being the right hand of his King. It's not right, my Lady. It's not right at all." Gimli glanced briefly at his companions. "We mean to correct that. With or without your blessings or your help." His words finished, Gimli dropped his eyes back to the ground.

_"And you? Master Gamgee? Have you nothing to say on this matter?"_

"Aye, I have plenty to say. But Mr. Frodo and Gimli have said it already," Sam's voice was soft, but Gandalf was surprised to hear the steel in it. He almost smiled proudly, long gone was the hobbit who eavesdropped. "I stand with them. With or without your help, we're going to bring Legolas home." Silence held them for a short time as the Queen of the Valar contemplated the small figures before her. Gandalf held his breath, knowing full well that the ground upon which they tread was treacherous; the Valar were not known for their tolerance.

_"We suppose, that you also support this?" _she asked finally and Gandalf slowly raised his head.

"My Queen, many lifetimes ago, you charged the Maiar with guardianship over the lands and peoples of Middle Earth. You bade us to watch over them, to keep them safe and to aid them if and when it became necessary. I have done as you ask, faithfully and without question." He spoke carefully. The soft chuckle that reached his ears made him redden slightly. "For the most part." He qualified. "Such was my duty; and it is one that I have carried out. However, it is a duty left undone. You bade us to leave Middle Earth, to allow the world of Men to thrive or perish without our interference. Such was and is the will of Manwë. We have obeyed that will. However by leaving the Prince to his fate, that will has been subverted. Such is his curse that he influences the world of Men just with his presence. His continued banishment changes the course of history; his interference disrupts all. He must be brought to Valinor so that Man and his world are free from the past. It is only then can the will of Manwë truly be obeyed."

_"Your words have merit, Olórin."_ She spoke slowly. _"You have given Us much to think on. Go now, leave Us to our thoughts. We will send for you when We have made Our decision." _ With those words, they found themselves standing outside the door of Bag End.

"Gandalf?" Frodo asked confused. Gandalf shook his head, leaning heavily on his staff, face grave.

"I don't know, Frodo. We can only wait and see."


	7. Chapter 6

Truth: Chapter 6

**Here I tender my apology, for I am probably about to slaughter Sindarin in many many ways. And I'm also going to leave you all waiting to find out what happens next. Yes this is a short installment, but, truly, this is where it needs to stop for the moment. Cliffhangers R Us, lol.**

_"Why?" The voice was smooth and cold as it washed over her. Breeze froze in place, raising her eyes once more to her reflection. She was no longer alone in the mirror. "Why would you wish to save me?"_

Breeze stared into the mirror, her mind and body freezing into immobility. The figure reflected there, just behind her captured her attention. Tall, _very tall her mind supplied;_ lean but not thin. The tailored tux, appropriate for the venue, emphasized his physique; its stark lines drawing the eyes. She let her eyes linger on the breadth of his shoulders, reluctant to look at the face that had haunted her grandfather.

He spoke again, voice still as chill as a winter wind. "Why would you wish to save me?"

Breeze swallowed, forcing herself to turn to face him, eyes still on the center of his chest. She clutched at the counter behind, using it to keep her knees from collapsing. She started to speak but her voice wouldn't obey; so she paused, formulating the courage to answer.

"Because," she whispered. "Because someone has to." Her words caused every line of his body to stiffen. She forced her eyes up to his face, breath catching. _Grandfather, for once your words weren't adequate, _she thought. His face was lean, high cheekbones the defining characteristic. It reminded her faintly of a cat's face, vaguely triangular but not quite. His mouth was full; stern as if he'd long since forgotten how to smile. His hair, still worn long was pulled back, covering the tell-tale tips of his ears in an artful swoop; its color somewhere between golden sunlight and moonlit silver.

Legolas felt the hate rising up in him as the small human faced him. Her soft words, whispered in that broken voice, woke the beast within; fueling the rage that created it. His control over the beast was tenuous at best. When she at last looked at him though, the beast within recoiled; icy shock flooding his veins and forcing it back into submission for the nonce. Aragorn's eyes stared at him, eyes that had haunted him for centuries. Their green depths showing the same pain that had tortured his brother as he spoke the words confirming his damnation. Her face was Aragorn's, softened by her gender, but his nonetheless. From brow to chin, she was Aragorn reborn. Yet, as he stared at her, there were differences; a smattering of freckles artfully hidden from human eyes across her nose, the tilt of her head, her stance- subtle differences. He focused on those differences, shutting out the pain of recognition; using them to remind himself that she was _not,_ in fact, could not be Aragorn. Ruthlessly he prodded his beast, allowing its anger to fuel his words and shut out the pain.

"Because someone has to?" he snarled.

Breeze flinched inwardly at the tone, his rage making her cringe. Quelling the urge to scream or flee, she raised her chin, meeting his eyes for the first time. "Yes, someone has to."

The beast roared within and he flowed forward until he was almost on top of her, unable or unwilling to stop the beast. "How dare you!" he spat. "How dare you to presume that **_I_** would need your help."

This time her flinch could not be hidden. She shrank back from the waves of pure hatred that flowed over her; the words of caution, written by her grandfather echoing in her mind. _'I fear the Prince of the Greenwood is no longer sane…'_ From somewhere deep inside her, she found the courage to stand her ground, though she truly longed to run. She tilted her head back, meeting the insanity in his gaze with a calmness that she truly did not possess.

"Yes, I can see that you don't need my help. It's fairly obvious that you _choose_ to remain here of your own free will," she snarked back at him. Inside she cringed at her audacity but the something that made her stand her ground, also had taken control of her tongue. _"Leithia-ruith, Legolas, gwanûr nín."_

The sound of his language, spoken rather poorly, only added to his anger. "Do not, _human_, tell me to put aside my anger. You do not have that right, nor do you have the claim of kinship that your ancestor held." He leaned even closer to her, looming over her, to whisper in her ear. "Do you not think, that in all this time, I have not found a way to end my suffering?" His breath stirred the fine hairs of her neck; his voice caressed her. The blade of his knife pressed against her throat. "I could end it now. Easily. Here in this room." He paused, smelling the fear that rolled off her now; taking perverse pleasure in it. "Your. Death. It would end my torment, and," he savored her terror like a fine wine. "There is no one here to protect you."

Breeze stayed perfectly still, unable to breathe; her heart stuttering. But then, her fear left; a deep calm, like nothing she'd ever experienced before, filled her. Slowly she lifted her head until their eyes met. The madness in his strengthening her calm. One hand raised, as if possessed, touching his cheek lightly, then falling to the hand holding the knife.

"If by my death, you are freed," she said softly, without tremor or fear, "then I embrace it willingly." She pressed against the blade. "Free yourself, my Prince."


	8. Chapter 7

Truth: Chapter Seven

***_a note from Shado: Sorry it took so long, but I did warn you all beforehand. I'm not sure I like this scene; it has been rewritten so many times and I just can't get the "flavor" I wanted from it. I think its because the original scene was written so long ago that I've lost the connection to it. Plus, it takes place in the BATHROOM of all places lol... just doesn't quit pack the wallop. OH well, this might be the worst one I post, but I promise it gets better. All the usual disclaimer's apply; no offense intended to anyone. _***

She stared into his eyes, unafraid, willing to give her life to see him freed if that's what it would take. She could see the madness, a red haze that tainted the sapphire depths. Yet she felt no fear. Some part of her marveled at that; she who was afraid to step out of her flat; unafraid of imminent death. Time seemed to crawl at the speed of light; both slow and fast. A dichotomy that passed through her consciousness and was gone just as swiftly.

The warmth of his skin under her fingers crept into her awareness as did the ragged sound of each breath he took. She felt the fine tremors of his hand, could see the muscle along his jaw twitch. The coolness of the blade against her throat receded as she waited. The Prince remained perfectly still; her life in his hands. The banging of the bathroom door sent him reeling back from her.

"Breeze? Honey you ok?" Sean said entering. "We were… what in the hell?" He stopped at the sight of the elf.

"Sean," she took a deep breath. "Sean, I'm fine."

"Breeze…" Sean said slowly, cautiously. His eyes were on Legolas.

"Sean, I want you to meet someone," she said gently. "Sean Astin this is Legolas, the Prince of Greenwood."

"Yeah right," Sean scoffed. "Whoever did his makeup is very good. Who was it? Pippa?" he looked between them. "And how did he get in here?"

Breeze almost laughed. Legolas sheathed the blade but made no further moves. "Sean, I'm serious." Sean grinned at her clearly not believing her. She sighed and shook her head. She could see a small smirk on Legolas's lips as he quirked a brow at her. She was relieved to see that he'd managed to quell the madness for the time being, but she knew it still lurked. Before she could say anything else, the door opened once more, this time admitting Elijah, Viggo and Orly.

"She ok, Sean?" Elijah was asking as he came in. He stopped dead in his tracks, causing Orly to collide with him. "What's going on?" he asked confused.

"Breeze here got cornered by a fan," Sean said pointing to Legolas.

"Boys," Breeze said with an eye roll. "Do the words _Ladies' Room_ mean anything to you at all?"

"That's no fan," Viggo said softly, reaching for his pocket. "Is he?' he asked Breeze as he pulled out his cell phone. He was staring at Legolas.

"Not exactly," Breeze muttered.

"She says he's the Prince of Mirkwood." Sean said by way of explanation. Elijah giggled slightly. Orly huffed and spread his hands wide.

"Well we know that isn't true," he announced. "_I_ am the Prince of MIrkwood." He advanced on Legolas. "You, sir, are an imposter."

Viggo grabbed Orly by the arm, preventing him from getting too close; his eyes on Legolas. _He knows,_ Breeze thought to herself. "I would suggest you stay right here, Orlando." The use of his proper name halted Orly in his tracks.

"Vig?" he asked slightly befuddled. It was obvious that he'd been into the champagne. "He's harmless."

"I wouldn't say that," Christopher's voice came from the doorway. He entered, crossing to Breeze. "Are you all right?" he asked her softly. "He didn't harm you?"

"I'm _fine_." She insisted. Christopher pursed his lips, not quite believing her. He turned to face Legolas, dark eyes on the elf.

"I greet you, Prince Legolas, I am Christopher Lee," he said cautiously. The "boys" shifted uneasily at his tone and words. "John told me much about you."

"Breezey, honey, what's going on?" Elijah asked softly. His voice cracked slightly.

"Lijah," Breeze answered. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Christopher continued, ignoring them for the moment. "Breeze and I were hoping that you would come." Legolas tilted his head slightly, frowning; eyes fixed on Christopher. He seemed to be listening to something that no one could hear.

"I-I" he whispered. "I _know you_! _SARUMAN!" _The shout echoed in the room and before anyone could react, he had Christopher pressed against the wall; blade drawn. Breeze moved before the boys could. She grabbed the arm holding the blade with both hands, tugging on it with all her strength. Legolas's eyes blazed in pure hatred as he stared into Christopher's.

"No!" she said sharply. "No, Legolas. He's not Saruman. I swear by the blood of Elessar, my ancestor that he is NOT your enemy. Listen to me, my Prince! Saruman the White died centuries ago, locked in his tower. Remember? He's dead. This is not him." She kept talking trying to break through the confusion and madness once more. She was barely aware of the boys moving. Christopher, wisely kept still and silent; though his face was white with fear. "Please, Legolas, please, listen to me. Saruman is dead."

Slowly the tension left his arm and she was able to pull him away from Christopher. Legolas dropped his head, breathing heavily. Carefully, she pulled him away, to the other side of the room. He followed, still breathing heavily. She kept herself between him and the stunned and now fearful group.

"Viggo, I think it's best if you all leave," she said to them, still focused on the now trembling elf.

"Breeze…" he started to protest.

"Please?" she said. "I'll be fine. But I think you all should go back out there." Legolas pulled away from her, gathering himself. He turned to Christopher.

"Forgive me," he said. "I was overcome by memory." He hid the knife once more. "It will not happen again." He bowed his head. "I am… not myself." Christopher nodded his acceptance of the apology but remained where he was.

"Are you," Elijah spoke. "Really _him_?" His face was pale, his eye wide. "Seriously? Are you really **_the_** Prince of Mirkwood?"

"Yes, Elijah," Viggo answered for Legolas. "He is." He gestured between Legolas and the group. "Just open your eyes, my friend and tell me what you see." Legolas flinched slightly at their regard, his composure still not totally intact.

"Holy shit." The awe in Orly's voice said it all.


End file.
